Hal's histories
by Eledhwen
Summary: (Title change from This son of York to reflect the addition of new chapters.) A series of flashback fics, telling the tales of Hal's long life.
1. This son of York

_**Disclaimer: **Toby Whithouse created Hal and Alex and I'm just playing in the BBC's sandbox. Richard III, of course, was real ..._

* * *

"This stuff about Richard III is really cool," said Alex, lounging on the sofa. "D'you think it really is him?"

Hal looked around from dusting glasses at the bar. "It certainly seems likely."

Alex twisted all the way around. "Hey, did you ever see him?"

"I'm not quite that old," Hal objected. "The Battle of Bosworth Field was five years before I was even born." He put a glass back on the shelf. "But I used to know a man who fought there. Some of the infantry and archers were from York. Some of them came home."

Alex got up and came to sit on a bar stool, leaning on the bar. "Go on."

Hal folded his duster. "I haven't told you or Tom – or Annie – this. The reason I met this man was because I grew up in a brothel. I never knew who my mother was."

"God, that's ..." Alex grimaced. "Shit, Hal, I had no idea."

He shook his head. "It was a long time ago. Trust me, I got over it. In any case, I certainly knew my mother, but not which of the women was my mother. They all cared, in their own ways. But this is not about them, it's about the old soldier."

The one-eyed man had been coming to the house for as long as Hal could remember. He did not seem to mind which of the women he went to, but he would pay well, and afterwards sit in the shabby little parlour and drink.

Hal, bringing the man a pot of ale as usual at the end of his visit, had often wondered about how he lost his eye, and why he always looked so miserable. He tried asking the women, but none of them seemed able or willing to answer, and eventually he decided that asking the man himself was the only solution to his problem.

The man had seen Lizzy, that day, and was in as good a mood as he ever seemed to be in when Hal came in with the ale.

"Thanks, lad," he said, as Hal carefully handed the pot over.

Hal stepped back, and screwing up his courage, said, "How d'you lose your eye, sir?"

The man looked at Hal through his remaining eye. "Arrow," he said, shortly, and then put his ale down on the little table by his elbow. "Eh, it's only right you ask," he added. "Bit of curiosity's no bad thing, in a lad. What's your name?"

"Hal," said Hal.

"Ha," the one-eyed man returned. "Bet your ma named you after the Welshman, right?"

"I suppose so." Hal had never asked about that either. There were enough lads in the city named after the king; it seemed logical that he was one of them.

The one-eyed man spat on the rushes on the floor. "I lost me eye fighting that man," he said. "I was scarce more than a lad meself, then. I were 'prenticed to a butcher in the Shambles, I were handy with a knife, fancied meself a bit of a fighter. So when Crookback Dick's lords came asking for an army I signed up."

"Was he crookback?" Hal asked. "I've heard some say as he wasn't."

The man nodded. "I'm a loyal son of York, I am, but I saw King Dick the morning of Bosworth Field and I'd be lying if I said his back were as straight as your'n. Didn't stop him fighting, though."

Hal, tired of standing, sat down on a cushion. "What was the battle like?"

"I dunno." The one-eyed man met Hal's dubious gaze with a shrug. "Honest. I couldn't tell you how long it lasted, how many o' Lancaster I faced. It were bloody and noisy and confusing. I was on foot, with a pike, like most of the fellows who'd come from York. Norfolk had a load of spearmen. T'other side had a bunch of great big Welshmen. I reckon we had the greater force, but Henry had the more loyal men." He drank from his ale.

"Anyway, the Crookback gave us all a rousing speech, from his horse, telling us we were fighting for God and our King and for England. But when we joined the battle bloody Northumberland held back. And it were mayhem. Arrows flying every which way, pikes in your face. I couldn't tell who I were fighting or where the king was. I battered away at them that faced me until an arrow hit me and that were that."

"What happened to the king?" Hal asked.

"I heard tell afterward that he lost his horse, then got himself bashed in the head and that was that," said the soldier. "Henry took the crown. Those of us who were of no value got sent home. They took Crookback Dick to Leicester and buried him, or so the messengers said."

"Maybe if he'd won there'd be lots of lads in the city called Richard," Hal mused.

"And why not?" asked the soldier. "He were a good king. They say he might've killed them princes, but he were a good king and he were a York."

"Even though you did lose your eye for him?"

"Even though I lost me eye," agreed the soldier. "Never go to war, young Hal. I was lucky that was all I lost." He drained his pot of ale. "Well. Now you know."

Hal got up from his cushion and took the empty tankard. "Thank you, sir."

The soldier nodded. "Welcome."

"He kept coming back," Hal said. "Every week for the next year or so. I suppose he must have died, to stop coming." He picked up his duster and turned back to the glasses. "It's always made me laugh, all these years, to hear them debate whether or not Richard was a hunchback. It was well-known at the time. But he was popular, in York at least, long after his death. Much more so than either of the Henrys."

Alex shook her head. "Wow. It's like – did you ever think about teaching history?"

Hal frowned at her. "For much of my life, that would simply have ended in too many bereaved parents, Alex. No. I have never thought about teaching history."

"Will you tell me more stories?" she asked. "Like, did you ever meet any kings or queens?"

He picked up an old bottle of whisky, dusted and replaced it.

"I did. And yes, I will tell you. When I am not dusting."

Alex stuck her tongue out at him. "All right, Mrs Mop, I'll leave you to it. But that's a promise, yeah?"

"A promise."

She turns back to the television.

* * *

**_Notes:_**

_Credit to Wikipedia's page on the Battle of Bosworth and the History of York site in particular for historical notes. At Bosworth Field, according to sources, Richard divided his army into three; the Dukes of Norfolk and Northumberland each commanded a 'battle' but Northumberland failed to follow the charge when Richard asked. Ultimately, Richard fell. Although he fought in the battle the recently-discovered skeleton does seem to prove the Tudor stories of his "hunchback", giving him scoliosis or a curved spine._

_For those interested, my fanon has Hal's brothel situated on what's now called Grape Lane in York city centre. It used to be called something much worse because that was where all the prostitutes hung out. Meanwhile our unnamed soldier was training to be a butcher on the Shambles, where you can still see signs of what the street used to be._


	2. Too famous to live long

_**Disclaimer: **__I'm not Toby Whithouse or the BBC, more's the pity._

* * *

"Movie night!" said Alex, bounding into the living room with a bowl full of popcorn.

Tom reached for the popcorn and crammed a handful into his mouth. "McNair never let me have this," he said, through a mouthful, indistinctly.

Alex offered the bowl to Hal, who grimaced at it. She put it on the coffee table.

"So, what're we watching?" Tom asked, between mouthfuls.

Closing the DVD player, Alex displayed the case triumphantly, and her housemates both sighed. "It's a bit ..."

"It's utter tosh," Hal said, with certainty.

"It's a classic. It won Oscars," returned Alex. "And there's Joseph Fiennes in it. And Gwyneth Paltrow, for you boys. Shakespeare, in love; what's not to like?"

"It's all wrong!" Hal repeated. "Apart from Judi Dench; I grant you that her performance is remarkably like Elizabeth. The rest ..."

Alex hit mute on the DVD, which was showing the menu screen. "Hang on. You _met_ Elizabeth I?"

"Met might be stretching it a little," Hal admitted. "I was at court. I saw her. She may have acknowledged me once or twice. William Shakespeare, on the other hand ..."

Seizing the remote, Alex turned the DVD off. "I hereby cancel movie night," she said. "Go on."

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

London in the latter years of the 16th century was a whirlwind. Hal, who had spent 10 years trying to go clean, had come to the city to lose himself amid the crowds and give in to nature. He had received a cautious welcome by the vampire community; it seemed that, while several years shy of a century, the name of Henry Yorke had already spread.

He had taken rooms on Cheapside, amid the bustle of the City, and had discovered that life in the city suited him. London was far, far larger and more lively than any other place Hal had lived for any length of time and he laughed to think of the way, growing up, he had thought York to be surely the capital of the world. Granted, it was filthy; on a hot summer's day the stench of meat from the market at Smithfield drifted towards the river, which itself stank in a different way. But there was colour, and life – a perfect place to hunt without being noticed.

Although Hal was not in London not to be noticed. He was making the most of his title, spending time at court. For the first time he felt almost comfortable being "Lord Harry" rather than plain Hal of York; greeted with deference by not only other vampires but by humans as well. The grandeur and customs of Queen Elizabeth's court fascinated him – who was allowed to speak to whom and in what order, when to bow and how low, the code the ladies of the court used when they wanted to get a message to a gentleman.

But one could not spend all day at court. Early in his time in London Hal had gone, accompanied by a recently-recruited young vampire, to the playhouse on Bankside and had sat enthralled by a new play about Faustus. Since then he had returned to the Rose Theatre on many occasions, alone, with women, with men, with vampires. The theatre entranced him; he had discovered a love for language in the years travelling Europe and since learning to read and write, and the use of words the playwrights displayed astonished him.

After each performance the audience would dispel into the streets around Bankside, heading to the taverns, to the bear pit, or to cross the river by boat or bridge. Depending on his mood, Hal would either wander back to his lodgings over the bridge, or would join the hordes drinking or gambling. It was easy to pick off victims amid the crowds, and even easier if he dressed in plain clothes and watched the play from the pit.

He found that his taste was for all types of play – tragedy, history and comedy. He liked all the popular playwrights and many of the actors, with a preference for Edward Alleyn over Richard Burbage. In short, the boy whose only connection to the dramatic arts growing up had been to trail around York following the guilds as they performed the Corpus Christi plays had become a keen and loyal supporter of the theatre.

Hal had been in London for eighteen months or so when, with some excitement, it was reported that the Admiral's Men were putting on a new play about the life of King Henry VI. The thought of a new play, as much as the amusement of going to see a piece written about the man he had been named for, drew him across the river again. The theatre was crowded for the performance, and the reception was warm. Hal applauded as loudly as anyone else.

Afterwards he found himself swept along towards one of the nearby taverns, where he bought an ale and looked for a place to sit and drink and spy out something more appetising. The only space in the tavern seemed to be at the end of a table covered in parchment, where an unremarkable young man, his fingers bitten to the quick, was sitting writing. Occasionally he would pause, swallow ale, and then return to his work.

"Do you mind?" Hal asked, gesturing towards the end of the bench.

"Did the play just finish?" the young man returned, dipping his quill in his inkpot.

Hal took that as a yes, and sat down. "A short while ago."

"And what was the conclusion? Of the audience, I mean?" the young man asked. "Did they take to it?"

"I'd say so," Hal said. He pulled a sheet of parchment towards him and studied the spidery writing. "'Now, York, or never, steel thy fearful thoughts, / And change misdoubt to resolution: / Be that thou hopest to be, or what thou art / Resign to death; it is not worth the enjoying,'" he read, and looked up. "It is a sequel to tonight's play."

The young man nodded, morose. "If ever I finish it." He put his quill down. "Perhaps I should have gone tonight, but the company is demanding a script for the next. Was it really well-received?"

"Yes, it was," Hal reassured him. He held out a hand. "I'm Hal."

"Like the king," said the writer, shaking. "Will. Late of Stratford. Do you come to the plays often?"

"As often as I can," Hal said. "Do you write much?"

Will shrugged, picking up his quill again and scratching a few more words. "I've written a few things. I haven't had much success, yet, though Master Henslowe seems to have taken me under his wing."

"A powerful patron," said Hal. Philip Henslowe ran the playhouse – he was a good man to know, in the theatre world. He watched the writer scribble. "And after you have completed Henry's story, what next?"

The young man paused, his quill dripping a blob of thick black ink on to the page. "I thought of writing about more of our kings. If I am writing about Henry, then perhaps Richard Crookback. But comedies and tragedy too, great love stories and plays to make men laugh. There is so much possibility on the stage."

Hal drank, and studied Will. "There is. I think you'll hit the mark, Will of Stratford. There was a kind of magic in the Rose tonight, I thought, and I've seen a lot of plays."

"I'm in need of supporters," ventured the playwright.

Standing, Hal considered the young man. There was an attraction in the thought of recruiting him, and ensuring a constant flow of new works for as long as he cared to write them. But he knew, as well as anyone, that becoming a vampire meant a change. Would young Will from a small town in Warwickshire still be able to turn out works full of such meaning, if he was separated from humanity?

"I'll watch your plays," Hal said. "I'll keep watching as long as you keep writing. For now, that's all I can promise."

Will shrugged. "It's better than nothing, I suppose. Well, I am pleased you liked my Henry, Hal." He grinned. "Ah, now, that's a good one."

"I'll let you write," said Hal.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"You thought of turning _William Shakespeare_ into a _vampire_?" Alex asked, aghast.

Hal looked abashed. "I was young. Relatively speaking. These days, you would have said I was a fan. Can't you imagine – how many plays he could have written, if I'd done it?"

"Shakespeare the vampire," repeated Alex. "Did you meet him again?"

"Once or twice," Hal said. "After the plague. They closed the theatres, you know, for plague, shortly after he'd finished the third part of Henry VI, and _Titus Andronicus_. We had a few plays at court, but it was not until later that Shakespeare really became famous. After that I had missed my chance. But I did keep going to the theatre." He smiled. "It stank, you know. Hundreds of very unwashed bodies, and the smell of the tallow candles they used, and the smell of the river. But there was nothing quite like it." He gestured at the DVD box. "But he was far less … fancy, than in your film. He was just a young man, when we met, trying to get by."

"And Queen Elizabeth?" Tom said.

Hal got up. "A story for another time, I feel. Put the film on. I'll make the tea."

* * *

**_Notes_****: **_Hal had to meet Shakespeare, I felt, and this seemed a nice link to Richard III in some way. Extensive Wikipedia research was undertaken, particularly the "Chronology of William Shakespeare's plays" page, which suggests I Henry VI was first performed in March 1592 at the Rose Theatre. The London theatres closed down for two years in summer 1592 when the plague broke out. I also used the fascinating map of London drawn by John Norden in 1593 ( wikipedia/commons/e/e7/London_-_John_Norden%27s_map_of_ ) to pick a place for Hal to live. Cheapside was - and is - a major thoroughfare, and the City was where everything happened back then._

_York's Corpus Christi plays have since become known as the Mystery Plays. Originally performed by the city's guilds, moving around on wagons over a period of several hours to perform key Bible stories, they've since been revived many times. Last summer, as part of York's 800th anniversary celebrations, a cast of hundreds of locals performed the latest version set against the ruins of St Mary's Abbey. Next year they'll be back on the wagons. A young Hal would definitely have seen the plays as a boy._

_The title of this piece is taken from the opening lines of I Henry VI, and though it refers to Henry V, it seemed suitable._


	3. Bring out your dead

"What a day!" Tom collapsed into the sofa. "That hen party … must've had a bit too much to drink last night. The state of their room ..."

Alex looked up from her magazine. "Messy?"

Tom shuddered. "Worse."

Coming through from the kitchen, Hal handed Tom a cup of tea. "I've said it before, Tom, this is nothing in the scale of hideous jobs."

Tom took the tea. "Ta. Go on then, what's the worst thing you ever did?"

Hal sat down, and thought for a while.

"The Great Plague," he said. "London. 1665."

They began dying in the winter, on the outskirts of London, and few in the City paid much attention – least of all Hal Yorke. Persuaded away from blood and killing, for a time, he had holed up in a backstreet near Newgate Gaol, and was existing miserably, avoiding other vampires and trying to get drunk on cheap liquor.

But even Hal could not have failed to notice when the pestilence entered the City. As houses were closed up and the rich began leaving, the bustling, stinking streets became quiet with the hush of death. The silence was broken only with the wails of women and the cries of ailing children, and, as night fell, the sound of wheels over cobbles as the death-carts collected the corpses of those who had died.

For Hal, oddly, the quiet was a relief. With fewer people on the streets his temptation was lessened, and his appetite was not whetted by the all-pervasive stench of death.

A month or so into the outbreak the criers began calling for help to dig graves. With the taverns closed, Hal found himself volunteering. For a penny a day, a cloth tied around his face, he toiled in the mud, digging and digging, while the carts clattered up with corpses. The bodies were tipped into the holes, and Hal and his fellows covered them up and dug more graves.

The stench threatened to overwhelm them, and though Hal had seen many horrors – indeed, had created many horrors – still the sight of the boils and pustules on the corpses, the rats scurrying amid them and the flies buzzing around the gravepits turned his stomach. And the labour was back-breaking, or would have been, had he been human. Even so, his fingers and nails were black with the dirt and his clothes torn and stained.

At the end of each day they were paid, and each morning, he would return to pick up his shovel once more. The workers with him sometimes returned and sometimes did not. Now and then, Hal would recognise a face as he tipped dirt over it, look into dead eyes and try and remember the name of the man they once belonged to. Only he kept returning, the dull tedium of the work numbing his hunger.

He was skin and bones, but still strong compared to his human fellows, when the number of bodies began to diminish. One week they buried fifty a day, the next thirty, and finally came a day when only one cart came carrying a solitary corpse.

"Plague's over," said the cart driver, wiping a brow. "Quacks say we're safe."

"We should have an ale, if the taverns are open again," said the man working alongside Hal.

Hal tried to leave, but he was towed along by the cart driver and his companion and given a bowl of unsavoury stew and a tankard of stale ale. The tavern was busy, with the poor folk who had stayed and survived despite the odds; its air fetid with unwashed bodies and thick with the pulse of the blood.

He drank the ale and ate the stew and fled, determined not to give in, not now. On the way back to his room he caught a scrawny cat and drained it dry, and spent the night in shivers and the next week huddled on his bed, feverish and delirious.

The hunger called him out, eventually, as he had always known it would. In a tavern he sat in a corner, eyeing up the customers. Some had clearly suffered from the plague, others, stronger, had been lucky. He watched, and waited, and after some time followed a drunk sailor out into the alleyway.

Hal moved out of the rooms in Newgate a week later.

"That's a pretty crappy ending for a pretty crappy story," said Alex, picking up her magazine again.

Hal picked up the empty tea mugs, and caught Tom's eye.

"Glad they got rid of that plague," Tom said. "Strikes me it drove a lot of people a bit daft."

Giving him a grateful smile, Hal nodded. "It did."

He went to wash up.


End file.
